And So It Begins
by Obstreperous Wookie
Summary: [Riley Adventure 6] Riley and Finn head to the Empire State in search of Finn and Mika's father. But what happens when they learn of homeless people disappearing off the streets? Basic Riley/Finn shenanigans.
1. Together

A/N: This one is from Finn's point of view. Tell me if you hate it, and I will totally scrap the random tangent my brain went on. :)

P.S. If you haven't read my other stories, then this one probably won't make much sense...

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><p><strong>FINN<strong>

I'd been trying to reach Riley for the past four or five days, either getting sent straight to voicemail or only talking to whomever kept answering Riley's phone. I knew she was being hunted by vampires, which scared the crap out of me, and I knew she was purposefully screening my calls, which pissed the hell out of me. It wasn't a great combo. None of the nurses would even talk to me anymore.

So when Riley finally decided to stop stonewalling and actually call me, I picked up without hesitation. "Are you okay? Are you safe?" I demanded. "Where are you?"

There was silence on the other end, then, "I'm in Indiana. I found a job." Riley cleared her throat, stalling. "Remember when you told me not to do that thing?" she asked slowly. Oh thank God, she was fine. Something in my chest loosened, and I felt what seemed like a mountain of unease slide off my shoulders. She was okay. She was actually okay.

Pushing past the wild relief over her continued existence, I wracked my brain in an attempt to pinpoint the exact "thing" that she was referring to. I came up blank, but I wasn't about to let her know that. "Let me guess, you did the thing." I wasn't even surprised. Then I sighed, not wanting to even begin to imagine all the things she could be doing that I'd warned her against. "And please—tell me how that went, Riley?"

"Well, I haven't done it…yet. What kind of show do you think I'm running here?" She sounded slightly offended, and I relaxed a little. Then I heard a little hitch of breath from her. Oh no. That was patented Riley Stewart guilt. "What do you suppose the Indiana justice system's position is on first time residential breaking-and-entering offenders?" she asked casually.

I looked up at the ceiling, wondering where I'd gone so wrong. "Riley, why do you do this to me?" I asked, my voice pained.

"I do it because I care," she said sweetly, her tone ultimately promising shenanigans. "But first, what do you think?"

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my eyes. She wasn't a minor, but she had a clean record so far. "Maybe a warning," I said. "Unless they want to make an example of you. Then you might face some jail time."

"Ehhh, Imma risk it," she said cheerfully, and I heard a door creak open. Shrill beeping caught my attention. "Oh," Riley said, no longer cheerful. "She has a home security system. Is it the red wire I'm supposed to cut, or is it the blue? I never remember these things."

I gritted my teeth, panic shooting through me. "It's the black one," I snapped.

Riley was quiet for too long. "How inconvenient," she said. "They're all black." I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her. And she thought I was the reckless one.

The beeping went shrill, turning into a continuous stream of noise. "Oh no," she deadpanned, "the alarm went off. The police are probably on their way. How terrible." I heard a rustling and the creak of what sounded like furniture. Was she...was she sitting down?

"What the hell are you doing in Indiana?" I snarled, fear making my stomach hurt. I just wanted her safe. Wanted her here.

"I already told you. I found a job," she said back pleasantly. I was going to kill her. I was going to kill her the second I laid eyes on her.

"You're literally one state away, and you thought you'd just mosey in and take care of a monster before dropping by to see me? Is that it?" My anger was on the verge of forcing my throat into a tight knot.

"I'm not thrilled about the eventual face-to-face," Riley continued casually, sounding only half focused on our conversation. "I'm delaying the inevitable." Her words hit like an iron fist to the stomach, and for a second, I couldn't breathe.

"You don't...want to see me?" It came out a bare whisper, and I felt numb. She'd stayed, stayed longer than I could have ever hoped for. She'd stuck with me even when things had probably looked hopeless. And now that I was awake, was she simply cutting her losses and moving on?

"What?" Riley sounded confused. "What are you talking about? I stayed by your side for months, Finn. Months! But yeah, I'm totally dreading seeing you. That's must be it."

She snorted, plowing on without letting me get a word in edgewise."No, you idiot, I'm talking about seeing your psycho mom." Then she let out the breath. Her voice got softer, losing its sarcastic bite. "That errand I was doing for Jemma? I may have altered the details of the contract a teensy bit. Let's just say she's going to be royally pissed, and I'm not entirely sure she won't lose it altogether."

She sighed, sounding tired. "So excuse me if I don't want to deal with that just yet." I was about to reply when I heard faint sirens in the background. They got louder and louder, but with a tinny quality, and I heard another creak as Riley stood up. "I gotta go," she said quietly. "People to save, monsters to kill. Hey, did you know it takes an average of eight point two minutes for the Lafayette Police Department to send a squad car to check out a tripped burglar alarm?"

The sirens got louder across the phone, and I rubbed my forehead nervously. "Is there a point to this, or are you just trying to get yourself arrested?"

"We've only been talking for three minutes. There's a police car outside already. This lady has been on the first responder to the scenes of four different home invasions. All the victims were deceased through various methods, but they had one thing in common. Their pituitary glands had all been harvested before reaching the coroner's office."

"Pituitary glands?"

"Pituitary glands," she confirmed.

"Kitsune," I noted.

"Ding ding ding, somebody give the man a cookie," she said. "Straight shot to the heart, right?"

"With a knife," I told her. "It has to be a knife to the heart."

"Ten-four," she quipped. "Catch you on the flipside. Riley out."

"Ri—" I started, but the phone was already blinking "call ended." I fought the urge to fling it at the wall. God, that girl had the irritating ability to blast holes in my self-control until it was like swiss cheese. She drove me insane.

And yet, I couldn't wait to see her. Couldn't wait to talk to her face-to-face. Couldn't wait to spend time with her.

This was not how I imagined my life going. Not at all.

Of course, Riley had a way of waltzing in and kicking ordinary, day-to-day life in the face. It was kind of her thing, I'd gathered.

She was turning my life on its head. And I kind of liked it.

So I could wait one more day to see her. She was worth it.

One day passed. The next dragged by with maddening slowness. By the third, I was going practically insane. The nurses refused to even come into my room, except by necessity. Even Trixie, who I'd gathered was Riley's friend, didn't come in very often.

I sat up whenever I had the energy, practicing small core movements and exercising muscles I hadn't used in months. My stomach had four long gashes across it. They were long since healed, but sometimes they twinged. Wendigo. Riley had killed it. I didn't remember that part, but I remembered her driving the boat away from the island, trying to get me to a hospital. Clearly, she'd succeeded.

I sighed, settling back against the pillows, turning on the TV in a fit of boredom. And when Riley finally walked into my hospital room, I almost missed it.

She arrived silently, ghosting into the room with none of her usual fanfare. She moved stiffly, but silently nonetheless.

The room was empty. Then it wasn't.

And she stood there, perfectly quiet and motionless as she stared at me.

"Hi," I said softly, not quite sure what to make of this new silence.

"Hi," she said back, a small smile spreading across her face. It didn't last long, and it wasn't her usual goofy grin, but then I hardly expected it to be. I'd nearly died. I didn't expect her to just bounce back from that.

That wasn't just it, though. She looked different. A faded bruise stood out across one pale cheekbone, and I could see a hint of a bandage under the collar of her blue hoodie. Her face was harder, too. I couldn't put my finger on it, but she just seemed...off.

"How are you?" I asked cautiously, watching her carefully.

She shrugged, seemingly untroubled, and that's when it hit me. She was literally giving nothing away. No cheeky grin, no sparkling eyes, nothing. No fear, no anger. Riley, a girl who could communicate half a dozen different things with a single look, was currently being about as expressive as a rock.

"Are you okay?" I asked, alarm bells ringing in the back of my mind.

"Why wouldn't I be?" she returned calmly. I didn't know how to respond to that, if there even _was_ a correct response. It felt like a loaded question, so I elected to remain silent.

After a minute, I cleared my throat. "I missed you," I said earnestly.

And that was it. That's all it took. Riley softened—visibly softened. Her shoulders slumped into a more comfortable slouch, and she dropped into the chair beside the bed, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them. "Long week," she said with a soft sigh. There was an indirect apology in those words. I knew her well enough to hear it.

I nodded. "I'm getting out of here tomorrow."

"Cool," she said, but that was it. She was back in "rock" mode.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to figure out why she was being like this. Finally, because I was coming up blank, I said the first thing to come to mind. "So you met my mother."

"Yes, I did." Her face was neutral, but her eyes went flat, and that scared me more than her rock impression and monosyllables. One of the things I loved about Riley was her eyes. They were hazel, flecked with gold, and in the right light, they came to life. When she was happy, they sparkled. When she was mad, they sparked. When she saw coffee or bacon, they lit up.

Right now, they were cold and flat in a way I'd never seen before.

"Ri, what happened? What did she do?" My mother. God, I could write a book on her and still never really understand her. We didn't talk anymore, and for good reason. She'd raised me as Hunter in a borderline emotionally and verbally abusive lifestyle, and I'd never forgiven her for ruining any chance for a normal life. I'd left her the day I was eighteen and had never gone back.

Even free of her, though, I'd been a bitter, lost kid back then. I'd had no friends, no family, no life outside of Hunting. I'd spent most of my nights drunk and angry. In fact, I'd given up any hope for any actual relationships, thinking those too were ruined by my stunted ability to connect to others.

Years had gone by, and I'd lost the bitter edge, stopped drinking so much. I'd turned back to Hunting, because I was good at it. I'd even managed to convince myself that I was happy.

Then I'd met Riley. The first time I'd seen her, I'd written her off as a blonde ditz. The Texan drawl, the pigtail braids. Then I'd discovered that not only was she a Hunter, but a damn good one. Somehow, even being new, she'd kept one step ahead of me for the entire hunt. And she'd done it in what I now knew was her completely unintimidated, caustic self.

Back then it'd rankled me, but now I loved that about her. She was smart, and she had great instincts. What she didn't know, she made up for with sheer spunk and skills.

Riley was a Hunter. I liked Hunting, and I liked Riley. It just seemed so weirdly perfect. Meeting Riley was definitely the best thing that'd happened to me in years, and now…

If that woman had messed this up for me, too, I was going to kill her.

"What did she do, Riley?" I grated out, feeling the familiar bitterness start to burn in my stomach like bile. My mother was manipulative and venomous, staining everything she touched like a cancer. She was everything Riley wasn't.

A scary thought occurred to me, and I went cold. "What did she _say_, Ri?" I could easily imagine a dozen different scenarios where my mother threatened Riley. There was nothing that woman wouldn't do.

Riley gazed at me with solemn eyes. They were more green than hazel right now, but there was no mistaking the seriousness in them. "Your father isn't dead," she said, chewing on her lip slightly.

I forgot how to breath for a second, reeling at the thought. "She said that?" I asked slowly, disbelief creeping in.

"No." Riley chewed on her lip some more, a sure sign that she was waging an enormous mental battle with herself, still watching me. Even looking at me, though, she wasn't really seeing me, lost somewhere inside her own head. "Your sister told me."

"I don't have a sister," I said automatically, feeling numb.

"Yeah. Just like you don't have a dad," she pointed out, tucking her hands under her chin.

"What are you saying?" I demanded, my head spinning.

Riley sat up, fire coming into her eyes. "I just spent the week slaughtering a nest of vampires. They had your sister. I took her, and then I had to kill the nine vampires that came to get her back. She's…" Riley waved a hand around helplessly, searching for the words. "She's psychic, Finn. Her dad...your dad...lives in New York somewhere. Mika said she ran away to find him."

Psychic? Father? What the Hell. I lay there silently, submersing into my own thoughts. This reeked of my mother, though, from start to finish. I trusted Riley. If she said I had a sister, then I did. That I had a father out there somewhere was an uncomfortable thought, but I still believed it nonetheless. Still, holy shit.

Riley stayed with me, and the hands on the clock crept forwards unceasingly. The lights on the floor turned off room by room. The nurses walked through, shooing off lingering visitors. No one even bothered trying to make Riley leave.

I thought about what she'd said until my brain hurt. Then I gave up and forced myself to go to sleep. "Hey, Ri?" I posed quietly. There was no response. I glanced over, realizing that she was completely out of it. "See you tomorrow," I said with a sigh. But at the same time, there was a warmth in my chest. She was here, and she was safe. Things were good again. I closed my eyes, blocking out the hospital noises, and fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was more than ready to get out of this hospital. Turning my head to the left, I sought out Riley with growing unease. But there she was, slumped fast asleep in the chair. My anxiety faded as I studied her. It couldn't have been comfortable, but if it bothered her, she gave no indication.

I eased my feet over the edge of the bed, taking things slow in order to not overtax myself and also not to wake Riley. She didn't even stir. There was a plastic bag beside her, and a cursory glance revealed mens' clothing. Damn, she was the best. I drew the items out, quietly getting dressed. Buttoning the last button on the plaid shirt, I ducking my head a little, trying to get a glance of Riley's face. Normally, she was a light sleeper. That she hadn't even twitched yet was an indication of how truly exhausted she must be.

More than ever, I wanted to know what had gone down during the last week.

There was a thin binder on her lap, nested under one limp arm. I eased it out curiously, wondering what it was for. Flipping it open, my eyebrows shot up. In typical Riley fashion, it was a detailed catalogue of the supernatural. Spirits, changelings, wendigos, vampires—they were all there under neatly labeled tabs. I skipped to the vampire section, noting how it was the thickest. Once there, my stomach twisted.

She was detailed and methodical. She had their strengths, their weaknesses. She had a sketch of their extra set of teeth. Methods of disposal, hunting patterns and what to look for. Dead man's blood. She had everything. It was thorough and clinical, which it both worried and impressed me. I closed the binder, setting it back in her lap. Then I shook her shoulder slightly. "Ri, wake up," I said softly. Nothing. "Ri," I repeated, louder this time.

She exploded into action. One hand flashed out, shoving me away as she shot up. The binder dropped to the floor with a slap as she did, and out of nowhere, there was a big-ass knife in her hand.

"Woah, woah. It's just me. Just me," I said quickly, showing her my hands. Riley stared at me unblinkingly, breathing hard. Then her knife lowered, dipping behind her back and disappearing into what I guessed was a belt sheath.

She scrubbed a hand over her face, bending down and picking up the binder. Then she noticed the clothes I was wearing. A small grin eked across her face. "Ready to go, then?" she asked, voice still rough with sleep.

That was it. No apology, no explanation. The old Riley would have been falling all over herself to apologize and probably blushing up a storm the whole time. It was weird. Not bad, necessarily, just...different.

"Just have to fill out the paperwork, then we're out of here," I confirmed.

The paperwork didn't take very long. Riley waited patiently by my side as I signed myself out. I don't think the floor nurses were sad to see me go. Trixie came by and hugged Riley. They talked in hushed tones for a few minutes, their heads bent together. Then they said their goodbyes, and Riley walked out with me, her face as cool and blank as I'd ever seen it.

It was so different from her cheerful banter on the phone that I was once again forced to consider what my mother could have said to her. But the farther we got from the hospital, the looser Riley got.

It was dark outside, winter hours having cut the sunlight short. I followed Riley to her car, wondering vaguely where my stuff was. I didn't ask her, though. I didn't want to break the quiet peace between us.

By the time we walked into a motel room, Riley almost seemed to be herself. Tossing her bag on the floor, she sat on the edge of the bed. I sat opposite of her, on the edge of my bed. We looked at each other for a long minute, just breathing. "Hey," I said softly.

A little smile grew. "Hey," she said back, just as softly. She put her hand up and I pushed my palm against it, lacing our fingers together. Hers were cold and banged up, mine were long and scarred. "I'm glad you're awake," she admitted.

"I'm glad you're not dead," I admitted, just as candidly. That made her grin, actually grin. Then she freed her hand and lay back on the bed, folding her hands over her stomach. She squinted at the ceiling, like the light was too bright, and I eased upwards, flipping the switch to turn it off. Then I lay back on my bed, wondering what was going through her mind right now.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked, finally working up enough courage to just ask.

She laughed softly, in that quiet, thoughtful way of hers. I turned my head and stared at her dark form, taking in the curve of her mouth and nose in the darkness. She was beautiful, and she didn't even know it. Here we were, lying only two feet apart, but it might as well have been miles.

I pulled my eyes off her and looked up at the ceiling. "What's so funny?"

She sighed. "I was thinking about you asking me out over the phone."

I winced. "Yeah. Not my brightest moment."

"I don't know how to be a girlfriend," she said with just a tinge of nervousness.

"I suppose you could start by cooking me something," I replied thoughtfully. I'd seen Riley try and cook. It was like watching a trainwreck in slow motion. She could make pancakes and bacon, but that was about it. Anything more complicated usually ended up black or unrecognizable. "Maybe giving me a shoulder massage. Clean my motel room."

She laughed again, which made my chest warm up. I loved that sound. It was authentic and soft and just so Riley. "Mh-hmm," she said. "And you might as well just give me full access to your wallet, because I need to go shopping for shoes and stuff."

We fell into an easy silence, and it was quiet for long enough that I wondered if she'd fallen asleep. If the bags under her eyes were any indication, then she could definitely use it. But after another minute, she snorted softly. "Do you think we should get matching tattoos?" she proposed.

It was my turn to laugh. "I think that comes after our relationship montage. You know, laughing in the rain. Snuggling on the couch together. All the quirky relationship stuff in the movies." Then I hesitated, becoming serious. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Riley turned her head to me, light reflecting off her teeth as she smiled. "Always," she answered.

"You're my first girlfriend. I don't...I've never had success with the whole relationship thing." I waited, and she turned her face back up towards the ceiling.

"Me neither," she said finally. "I guess we'll figure it out together then?"

"Together," I confirmed.


	2. Albany

Disclaimer: Winchesters and Bobby Singer are not my characters.

A/N: So sorry, y'all. I got accepted into Nursing school, so things have been crazy. I honestly don't know if updates will be regular anymore. *cringe*

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><p><strong>FINN<strong>

Riley's phone rang, jolting me into consciousness. The day's sun trickled through the cheap motel curtains, but I kept my eyes closed. It had been a bad idea turning the lights off last night, because after our conversation, Riley and I had pretty much just fallen asleep where we lay. And my body had no qualms about letting me know just how bad that idea had been.

Across from me, Riley stirred a little. A second later, her hand shot out and snagged the ringing phone off the nightstand. "Sam, hey, thanks for calling," she mumbled softly, probably trying to not wake me up. Her back was to me, phone cradled against her ear, and she laughed quietly. "What? No, everything is fine. No amnesia, no vampires. I did take out a lamia, though. Those suckers fight dirty!"

I wondered if that was how she got the bruise on her cheekbone. Probably not. It looked too faded to be recent. Riley laughed again. "Finn? No, you can't talk to him!" There was a pause. "Because he's still sleeping. So there." Another pause. Then she drew in a sharp breath. "Oh my gosh, Sam, stop! Stop, stop, stop. Ew! I am _not_ getting that talk from you. My mom already covered those bases when I was, like...twelve. Sam, stop!"

She sounded mortified, and I didn't even have to guess what he was trying to tell her. But what did confuse me was the fact that _he_ was telling her. Since when was Riley on a familiar enough basis with Sam Winchester that he was giving her the "birds and bees, use protection" talk?

There was a long silence, and then Riley broke it with a low, snorted chuckle. It was hardly a dignified sound, but it was totally a Riley sound. "Wow, totally did not see that one coming," she said, still kind of laughing. "Thanks for looking out for me, I guess. Anyways, do you know where I should start? Looking, I mean. I don't have much experience with missing persons cases."

Sam said something on the other end. I could hear the buzzing voice but couldn't make out any of the words. Riley listened patiently, murmuring affirmatives every so often. Then she thanked him and hung up.

I waited for a second, and she rolled over just enough to peek at me.

I stared back at her.

"Oh. You're awake," she said in a tiny voice.

"Yeah," I said darkly, not liking being so out of the loop.

She looked a little hesitant over my tone, but then she shrugged. "Want to go to the gym and spar with me?"

I blinked, not having seen that coming. Then I grinned, because yes, I really, really did.

A few hours later, I was regretting my decision most profoundly.

Everything hurt.

I guess, in thinking about it, that shouldn't have been surprising. Twelve or so weeks in a coma was enough to pare down my muscles into the bare minimum of functional. When Riley and I had gone to the gym, trying to get me back up to speed, I might have overdone it.

Not being built like a slab of rock, I usually kept myself pretty toned and quick. I was fast, maybe not as fast as Riley, but I was also strong. It was the best I could do with my generally wiry physique. My version of fighting was pushing myself to the limit and honing every part of me that would give me an advantage—hit hard, hit fast, take 'em down.

Riley's version of fighting was dancing around inflicting as much damage as possible and generally running her opponents into the ground while she looked on cheerfully. Which is why everything hurt right now. She didn't even really have a fighting style so much as a brawler's enthusiasm and a can-do attitude. It was a lethal combination, which meant that I would definitely be thinking twice before climbing back into the ring with her.

The bathroom door opened, and Riley walked out, toweling her hair dry. She was wearing a t-shirt that clung to all the right places, but that wasn't what caught my eyes. One of her arms was bruised almost beyond belief. The bruises were old and faded, but they were still a grim reminder of what had been. The other forearm sported a bandage wrap, and I almost didn't want to know what was under it. Furthermore, the bandage I had seen peeking out past the neckline of her hoodie was gone, revealing the faint remains of a bite mark.

My chest tightened with anger, but I kept it off my face. What's done was done. Riley wouldn't appreciate my post-incident reaction, so I'd just keep it to myself. Instead, I settled onto my bed with a groan, all my muscles protesting.

She sat down beside me on the end of the bed, towel held loosely in her hands. "Finn?" she asked quietly after a moment.

"Hmm?" I murmured, wondering what was going on in her head.

She was silent for another long moment before clearing her throat. "Jemma. She threatened to hurt my family if I didn't tell her where Mika was. Do you think she'd really do it?"

I knew it. My mother _had_ threatened Riley. "I don't know," I said honestly. Because I didn't. I didn't know if Jemma would stoop so low was to hurt innocent people. But then again, I also didn't know all the secrets she'd been keeping from me. Even so, assuming she _was_ willing to follow through, she'd definitely go about it in a specific way.

"If she was willing to hurt your family, she wouldn't do it right now. Jemma is probably trying to track down Mika. If she doesn't find her, then she'll come threaten you again. Then, and only then, will she maybe follow through on her threat." God, I wished I could tell her that her family would be safe. That my mother wasn't truly psychotic. But I couldn't. I really couldn't.

Riley slumped and let out a little hitched breath, so I hurried to tell her the good part of the equation. "I'm here, though, Ri. She'll think twice about threatening you if I'm with you. And believe me, I'm not letting you out of my sight again." Riley sighed and fell back beside me, both of us staring up at the ceiling.

Her phone rang, and I rolled my head to the side, watching her. She didn't move. Her blank, thoughtful gaze at the ceiling didn't waver, and she made no indication that she even cared or heard that her phone was going off. I levered myself upright with a low groan and leaned over to the nightstand, checking the phone's screen. Bobby Singer was calling. I fell back again, dragging the phone with me as I went.

Bobby Singer. I didn't know very much about him, but I'd heard that he was a rock-solid source of intel. You needed to know something, he'd get it done. How Riley even had his number was beyond me.

"Riley's phone," I answered. Riley blinked at me, unfazed. Then, very slowly, she reached out her hand. I rolled my eyes and turned away.

"This ain't Riley," Bobby said gruffly.

"Riley's indisposed at the moment," I replied. "Can I take a message?"

There was a pause, then, "She still want information on New York?" I went cold. Riley was asking about New York. She'd said my father was in New York somewhere, and she'd gone to Bobby, of all people, to find out where.

"Did you find him?" I asked, my tone suddenly flat.

"Not yet," Bobby said shortly. "Found a job, though. Seems right up her alley."

"Riley doesn't have an alley," I said coldly, not liking his initiative.

He snorted. "Boy, Riley up and made her own alley when no one was looking. I don't like it, but she's good. Does she want it or not?"

"Sure," I said coolly, irked by his patronizing tone. "We'll check it out."

"Albany," he said, "People are disappearing. Not angels, not demons. Don't know what it is yet."

"Got it," I said, disconnecting the call and tossing the phone aside. Then I glared at Riley. "You're looking for my father." Her hazel eyes blinked slowly up at me, completely unaffected. "You have no right," I snapped.

"I promised Mika I would find him," she said calmly. "I have every right."

I narrowed my eyes, still mad, when something occurred to me. Her conversation with Sam made sense now. She'd been talking about searching for missing persons. God, everyone was involved except me.

"Bobby has a case in Albany," I gritted out.

"Great," she said evenly, "we'll check it out. We'll take my car, but you can drive if you want to."

"Fine," I snarked.

"Fine," she sniped back.

I turned and stomped into the bathroom, knowing I had to shower before we spent multiple hours together in an enclosed space.

We took Riley's car, because mine was still MIA since the wendigo incident. I climbed in the driver side, starting the engine, and Riley dragged herself into the passenger seat. She barely had enough energy to toss her bag in the backseat, and it made me wonder if maybe she overdid it in the gym, too.

Barely half an hour into the drive, I had my answer. Riley basically just tipped over against the car door and fell asleep. I turned the music down, giving her a perplexed glare. She riled me up in ways I didn't understand, yet looking at her now, I just felt the overwhelming desire to keep her safe from anything and everything. It was maddening, these new feelings. I couldn't keep up.

Riley slept. And slept. And slept. I thought about waking her, but the bags under her eyes and her general unhealthy appearance persuaded me not to. Whatever had gone down this past week had to have been brutal for her to be this exhausted and out of it.

In fact, it wasn't until we reached the Ohio-Pennsylvania border that Riley jerked awake. I didn't miss the hand that went straight for her knife, but instead of jumping in and trying to calm her down, I just rode it out, remaining neutral as she slowly pulled herself together. I couldn't stop myself, though, from asking the question that had been burning in my brain for the past couple hundred miles.

"What happened?"

I posed it simply enough, knowing she would need no other clarification to understand what I wanted to know. And I tried to say it in what I hoped was a thoroughly undemanding tone.

She glanced at me, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes. Her eyes got kind of distant. "You know vampires," she said quietly. "They hunt you down like dogs after a rabbit."

I grimaced, knowing vampires did exactly that once they had a scent. I'd only run into a vampire one time, and it had gotten pretty hairy facing him alone, which led me to my next inquiry. "How many were there?"

Riley turned and looked out the window. I could see her practically rearranging her face to remain impassive. When she got it under control, she faced forward again. "Nine," she said softly. "There were nine."

"You killed nine vampires?" I was astounded. Even by experienced Hunter standards, that was high. I was both wildly impressed and slightly horrified.

"I killed eight. Sam Winchester killed the last one." She said it with perfect calm, but her voice hitched a little on the last word.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, worriedly. Riley, despite having chosen the Hunting lifestyle, absolutely did not like killing things. When I'd first met her, she'd been unable to kill the scumbag serial killer controlling a spirit. Clearly she didn't have that problem anymore, but that didn't mean that she was over her intense dislike. I could only imagine what the past couple of weeks had been like for her.

"I'm sorry," I said finally. And I meant it. Riley had faced down nine vampires. For me. None of that would have happened if Jemma hadn't approached her.

Riley shrugged, her tightly pressed lips trembling dangerously. Oh crap. I did not want to see her cry. I could not handle crying female. So, I said the first thing that came to mind. "Was it worth it?" I asked desperately.

Riley froze. Then her face scrunched almost comically, and her mouth moved silently, like she couldn't even comprehend the question. "Was it…" Riley trailed off, seemingly bewildered. "You're awake, and Mika's safe. Of course it was worth it." She scoffed, like the very question was offensive, and I wanted to rejoice that the potential tears had been headed off at the pass.

Still, her mention of Mika stirred up the mess inside my head. I stewed it over, and after a moment, I couldn't help myself. "What's Mika like?"

Riley settled lower in her seat, laying her arm along the door and resting the side of her head against it. This little smile twitched to life on her face, and she gave a tiny, happy snort. "She looks just like you. Fourteen, almost as tall as me. She's smart and thoughtful. She loves to read. God, Finn, she's so sweet. But she can be feisty and strong, too. She's just...perfect."

I glanced over at her. "Sounds a lot like a girl I know."

Riley looked up at me, surprise coloring her face. Then she got it and rolled her eyes with a grin. A second later, she straightened, her mirth fading. "She's _good_, Finn. Mika has such a big heart, and she just...she just cares so dang much about everything. Even Jemma can't ruin that. There's so much kindness in Mika, it just kind of leaks out. Not even kidding."

I took a chance, reaching over slowly so as not to startle her, and poked a finger into her side. "Still sounds a lot like a girl I know." Riley snorted, staring out the window in quiet dismissal of the idea, but the tiny smile was back, and that was something.

We rode in silence from then on, and Riley fell asleep again, though not before I made her drink some water. I looked over at her every now and again. She looked peaceful, less on edge. The hard set of her face had softened, but I knew it wouldn't last. It made me wonder how long it would take before Riley would lose the hypervigilance, the reflexive knife grabs, and the cool detachment.

The bizarre urge to just wrap her in my arms hit, and I stared out over the freeway, perplexed and not sure I liked these new feelings. I shook off the urge, knowing it was impractical in a moving vehicle, and noted the mileage to Albany, New York as stated on the signs. It was at least another four hours away, which left me with a car full of silence and dark thoughts.

Riley slept the entire rest of the way to Albany, and when we got a motel room, she crawled right into bed and went still. It worried me, so I checked her temperature and forced some more fluids into her before she fell asleep. Normally, Riley would have told me to shove it, but I think she was so tired she just went along with it placidly. That was probably what scared me the most.

I paced around the room after she'd fallen asleep again, not knowing what to do. I wasn't really used to taking care of someone other than myself.

Eventually, I clicked the light off and laid down on the other bed. My muscles protested as I did, but then I relaxed, feeling like maybe I was going to put down roots after my long day. Before I knew it, I was out.

Six o'clock rolled around before I was ready, but it was like a switch flipped in my brain, and I was instantly awake. Riley, not so much.

I got up, grabbing my duffel before heading to the bathroom. In front of the mirror, I sniffed and rubbed a hand across my jaw. The extended hospital stay had not been kind. I was sporting a bushy, reddish scruff despite my blonde hair, and it made me look like a wild man. It was a miracle Riley even recognized or went out in public with me.

I scowled, dismissing my reflection as I unpacked my shaving kit from my duffel. I was more of a "five o'clock shadow" guy than a full on "Bram Stoker," anyway. After shaving the scruff with practiced expediency, I pulled a meticulously folded suit and tie out of my duffel. Then I flipped through my stack of fake ID's, pulling my FBI badge out of the mix. Coincidentally, it was the same one I'd used when questioning Riley in Shoreline.

Riley, of course, would never pass for an FBI special agent. She was too young looking, too cheerful. Which was why I'd made her an intern badge all those weeks ago. That way, she could just tag along with me, looking very much so like the still new, "untouched by the job's taint" intern.

Pulling the suit jacket on, I cinched on the tie and ran a hand through my hair. I was passable, just like the dozens of other times I'd impersonated a federal officer. Now I only lacked one thing: my intern.

When I opened the bathroom door, I was relieved to see Riley peering out of the muddle of blankets. Only her eyes and nose were visible, but at least she was awake. "Morning," I said carefully. "I was thinking we could check out some of the disappearance sites today. What do you say?"

All I got for my efforts was a noncommittal grunt. I frowned, tapping my thumb against the doorjamb. "I'm going to run out and get coffee, 'kay?" I informed her, deeming caffeine a wise investment. Besides, I kind of liked the dopey look Riley always got when she first encountered coffee in the morning.

Fifteen minutes later, I was back with two hot cups. Riley, however, still hadn't moved.

"Ri, come on. Let's go already," I called to the fetal-positioned lump on the bed. "I have coffee," I wheedled, thinking it would help. It didn't. Not so much as twitch from her.

"I can't go out," came a muffled announcement. "I'm dying." Alarm ricocheted through me for a second. Was she injured? She'd seemed fine at the gym.

"What's wrong? How can I help?" I half-demanded.

There was silence, then a feeble reply. "Maybe just pick up some chocolate or ice cream on your way back?"

I frowned. Chocolate? Ice cream? What?

Oh.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I was not prepared to deal with this.

I shifted from foot to foot, not entirely comfortable with even thinking about stuff like this. Crap. I had no prior experience with this. It was always kind of a non-issue with my mother. "Can't you just, I don't know, power through it?" I asked, testing the waters.

Gold flecked eyes glared balefully out of the cocoon of blankets. "No uterus, no opinion," came the crabby reply.

I rubbed the back of my neck. Chocolate it was, then. "I'll be back...later," I said weakly. Then I hightailed it out of there before she could ask me to pick up anything else besides chocolate.


	3. Shenanigans

Disclaimer: Winchesters and Bobby Singer are not my characters.

A/N: *rubs hands gleefully together* PLOT TWIST! Heehee, enjoy. Also, the POV shifts from the last few chapters. Haven't tried that before. Tell me if it's too weird? Sorry for any grammar mistakes. It's late, but I was too excited and posted the chapter anyways. I'll come back and fix it 'em. Thanks for reading, y'all!

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><p><strong>Riley<strong>

As soon as Finn was gone, I flung off the blankets and dialed Bobby's number with flying fingers. It was true that I had some gnarly cramps today, but life had never once paused for one moping Stewart, and I doubted it was going to start now.

Bobby picked up on the third ring. "Whatcha got for me?" I breathed into the phone, the sheer subterfuge of going behind Finn's back making me breathless and more than a little guilty.

"'Bout time you called," Bobby grunted. There was a scraping noise and a small clink. Oops, it sounded like he was eating breakfast. Before I could say anything, he went on. "There are only two true psychics in New York, and one's a woman, which makes things simple. Your guy works for a private contractor named Rick Kuebel. Most I can tell, Kuebel is ex-navy. Hardass, gets the job done. Arthur Sanford is the psychic. He's the brains. Rick is the brawn." Bobby paused then continued, sounding cautious, "They own an office somewhere in the northern district of Springfield. Couldn't find the address. They're by referral only."

Arthur Sanford, North district of Springfield. I could work with that. I blew out a breath before chewing on my lip. "Thanks, Bobby. You're the best."

He muttered a gruff, obligatory "Yeah, well, I wasn't that busy anyway," and then paused again, almost like he wanted to say something else.

I waited patiently—for maybe three seconds—before I cleared my throat. "I'm okay," I offered tentatively, wondering if this was yet another bizarre episode of me somehow provoking the male protective instinct. Sam, Dean, Finn, Bobby… Don't ask me where it comes from or why they seem to think I deserve it. It just kind of happens.

"Be careful," he said, his tone darker than before. Then the line went dead, leaving me frowning at the blank screen.

"Men," I muttered, tossing my phone onto the bed as I got dressed in clothes that weren't so tired and sad. After pulling a brush through my hair and braiding it down over one shoulder, I searched for my Converse, which always seemed to disappear. "Gotcha," I muttered, fishing one out from under the bed. I hopped around on one foot, pulling the errent shoe on, before spotting a splash of yellow under the table. Snagging the other shoe and popping it onto my other foot, I snagged my black peacoat off the chairback and grabbed my canvas messenger bag.

Finn had my car, which meant I was going to have to take the bus today. That wasn't so bad, though. I'd just take my sketchbook with me and use it to pass the time.

Thirty minutes later, I was tucked into a comfy bus seat with a charcoal pencil twirling between my fingers. I tapped it against my lip, leaning my head against the window as the condensation grew. There was snow outside, drifting down in solitary flakes. It was pretty, yet I didn't find the usual joy that snow brought.

I sniffed, feeling the cold against my cheek, and my eyes fluttered shut, just for a second. Out of the blue, inspiration hit like a tide. Flipping the sketchbook open, I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and began to draw.

I was almost depressed when I got off the bus.

My breath billowed out in front of me in a steamy cloud, and I frowned down at my charcoal smeared hand holding my sketchbook. What had started out as half a dozen sweet little sketches—mostly candid moments of Mika and Finn that I'd mentally captured—had morphed into something darker.

My pencil had skated across the paper, shading in dark puddles of blood in the midst of even darker moments. I had inadvertently unleashed a feverish mental highlight reel of the worst happening of the past few weeks. Blood, vampires, graves, machetes. It was horrid. Yet it had flowed from my brain like water—a chronicle of all the grisly moments my brain was stuck replaying over and over again. Snapshots and memories I would gladly live without. But they were mine now.

I could've made myself stop, could have forced myself to think about something else, but I hadn't even tried. Sitting there on that bus and getting those images out of my brain and onto paper, I had figured, was a kind of therapy in and of itself. I would never be able to just talk about what had happened, would never be able to visit a therapist like a normal person might. So the best I could do was to deal with what had happened by drawing it, and then maybe that would help my brain move on and stop playing me the gruesome highlight reel every time I closed my eyes.

Which was why my sketchbook was now the storyboard from hell. No joke. They could totally make a horror movie out of the contents. I just hoped no one saw it and thought it was my cry for help.

Flipping back the flap on my canvas messenger bag, I stuffed the sketchbook and charcoal pencil inside, pulling out a pair of gloves in return. Shoving my hands inside the warmth, I clapped them together and blew warm air onto my curled fingers. Then I shoved a fly-away strand of hair out of my face and began walking.

I was not going to think about being covered in blood. I was not going to remember what it felt like when the machete severed the heads of the vampires. Nope, I was not thinking about that at all. I was just going to focus on the task at hand.

On my phone, I had a map of the northern district of Springfield. I pulled it up, trying to work out a game plan.

There were only twenty-three main blocks with businesses on them, but according to the bus schedule, I had four hours to canvas the entire area. I wasn't all that hopeful, but I had an ace up my sleeve. There might be a psychic hidden somewhere in Springfield, but I had a psychic too. And sometimes, she was darn useful.

Case in point. By the time I called Mika, I had been wandering up down the blocks for two and a half hours and had not found any such shop proclaiming employment of Arthur Sanford or Rick Kuebel. I was running short on time, patience, and altruism. I was cold, and I was annoyed. In spite of that, when I called Mika, I shoved my annoyance down into a deep dark pit and worked up a passably normal tone.

Mika's phone went to voicemail, which I kind of felt was better anyways. I didn't know what I would to say to her if she started bombarding me with questions. When the beep sounded, I left what I hoped to be a reasonably intelligible message. "Hi, Mika, this is Riley. I just wanted to call and...I don't know...find out if you could like think about me and get your juju working. I need a little help finding someone. So if you, you know, see anything just...um...call me. Okay, yeah. That's all. Hope you're doing well. I'm going to hang up now. Okay. Bye."

I hung up feeling stupid and awkward. Why the heck did I even think that would work? With an enormous sigh, I trudged onwards, crossing off streets as I cleared them.

Mika, being the scarily talented little psychic that she was, called me back with forty minutes to spare. I came to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, clenching and unclenching my fists as I did my best to fend of my roiling nervousness and anxiety. "Hi," I said thickly, working to keep my tone as casual as possible.

"Walk to the end of the block and turn left," Mika responded shakily. Then the call ended, leaving me wildly curious as to what she had seen. I hoped it hadn't been bad. Judging from her voice, it had been, which was totally my luck. Ask a psychic a favor and completely ruin her day. Typical Riley.

Jogging to the end of my current block, I turned left and stared at the building on the corner. It was nondescript, brick, and entirely too ordinary to merit more than a half-glance. Which is why I stared at it with uncontained prejudice and suspicion.

I walked slowly, taking deliberately studious steps, until I came to the single door for the building. The glass door itself was recessed, hidden a good two-and-a-half feet back from the sidewalk. It would have been easy to right walk past. But there, written in white letters on the top half of the door, were the words I had been looking for the entire morning.

"Rick Kuebel, private investigator," I read under my breath. There was no mention of Mika and Finn's father, but I hardly expected there to be a "Psychics R Us" sign slapped on the window.

My breath billowed up in a cloud of steam in front of me as I chewed on my lip and studied the door. Finn's dad could be in there. I could be totally and irrevocably messing up his life sometime in the next five minutes. I let out a long breath, wondering if this whole thing was a big mistake. But no, he deserved to know. And I had promised Mika I would find him. I had to at least finish the job. "Arthur Sanford, I hope you're freakin' worth it," I muttered, pushing against the metal bar on the door.

It swung open easily, but there was no bell or alert to state my presence. I guess I didn't really need one. The shop was small. It wasn't even a shop, really. It was more of an office space.

I wiped my feet on the rug and walked towards the desk on the left. There was a computer on one half of the desk, and a man sat behind it. His feet, clad in two dark combat boots, were crossed neatly on the corner, and he was leaning back in his chair, a battered novel in his hands. He didn't even look up when I walked in, which made me wonder how he even got any customers with service like that.

But I got it. He was waiting for me to make the first move. It was smart, really. It put me a little off guard. Or it would have, at least, had I not just spent my last few weeks being toyed with by a psychotic monster and literally getting away with murder. At this point, I was beyond simple intimidation.

So I just studied him. His body was loose and relaxed, but I wasn't fooled. He had the same predatory air that Sam and Dean got sometimes, right before they got out of the car to kill something. Deceptively easygoing but completely ready for action.

This was Rick, then. He practically screamed "bad-ass military macho man."

After a good thirty seconds of silence, Rick set the book down and swung his feet off the desk with astounding grace and hardly a sound. Definitely military. His fingers steepled on his desk, and he returned my stare, blatantly studying me as I had just done.

I don't know what he saw in me, but his hand reached under his desk with alarming alacrity. I didn't have to think too hard to know what he was going for under the wood barrier. In fact, I didn't have to think about it at all, because as soon as he moved, my hand did the same thing and went straight to the gun tucked in my bag. I curled my fingers around the handle, not really sure what was going to happen at this point.

Rick confirmed my suspicions when he set a big-ass piece of weaponry on the desk in front of him. It was shiny, and it gleamed in warning. I had no doubt he knew how to use it. But, like before, I was beyond simple intimidation.

Rick blinked at me slowly, but it wasn't a leering gaze. It was professionally studious. He was measuring me, and we both knew it. "Bet you're packing some souped up girly gun in that bag of yours," he said finally, a cold hint of a smile playing at one corner of his mouth. "A thirty-eight? A little Bursa, maybe?"

I pursed my lips thoughtfully and shrugged, my usually reserved sass monster rearing it's head. "Bet my little souped up girly gun is aimed at your manparts."

Rick coughed and sat up in his chair, losing his smirk right quick. "Arthur," he barked into the doorway off to his right. "It's for you." When he turned back around, his face had gone expressionless, and that kind of scared me more than his gun. So, instead of thinking about it, I gave him a polite, one-second smile before turning my attention to the doorway.

There was a noise from the back room, and a second later, a man in a wheelchair rolled through the doorway. He came to a stop, positioned even with the desk, and smiled politely at me.

While Finn had been nearly an exact replica of his mom, he differed quite a bit from his dad. In fact, aside from a shared slope of the jaw and curve of a smile, they looked nothing alike. But I could see enough to make a definitive match. This was Finn's father. Oh boy.

"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice smooth and low.

I cast a speculative glance around the room, wondering the most tactful way to go about this. Then, realizing I was running out of time, I decided to curbstomp tact and just jump right in. Patented Riley Stewart move, tried and true. "Do you have kids?" I queried, figuring we might as well just get it all out now.

Rick bristled, his fingers running over the gun with deceptive laziness, and pain flashed across Arthur's face. He didn't try to hide it. Touchy subject, then. "No," Arthur said, an obviously old tension in his voice as he flicked a hand down over his limp lower half. "The accident made that impossible." Then his face twisted into vague unease, and he looked at me sharply. "Who are you?"

I chewed on my lip. "You're the psychic, you tell me." Neither of them found that amusing, I could tell. I guess it sounded better in my head. Still, it wasn't a half bad way of putting my knowledge out there. Arthur rubbed a hand across his jaw, a gesture so distinctly Finn that it was unnerving.

"I can't have kids," he repeated more firmly. "It's a physical impossibility."

I shrugged helplessly, not sure if there was a better way to tell him. "So is seeing the future. But you see it. Your daughter sees it—variations of it, anyway."

Rick sat up, ramrod straight. His fingers tightened on his gun, but his anger wasn't directed at me. He turned his head very slightly to the right, barely even looking at Arthur. "That woman," he growled, very dangerously and very quietly, but I still heard it. "I told you something about her was off, showing up again after all that time."

"Jemma McAllister," I said promptly, knowing there could really only be one woman to elicit that kind of reaction.

Rick looked at me like I had suddenly sprouted another head. Arthur just looked kind of sick.

I took a step forward, using the hand already inside my bag to pull it around in front of me. "Eh, eh, eh, slowly," Rick tsked, shaking the barrel of his gun at me in warning. I gave him a steady look, but I really couldn't blame him in the slightest. I had shown up out of nowhere and dropped a bomb on his business partner. I was armed, and I knew Arthur was a psychic. I would have been wary of me, too.

Sighing, I brought my gun out slowly, setting it on the desk—just to appease Rick—with a roll of my eyes. He stared at it, tongue in cheek, looking slightly dissatisfied. Sorry bub, no souped up girly gun here.

I rolled my eyes again and dug my wallet out of the messenger bag, setting a piece of paper on the edge of the desk and sliding it towards Arthur. "Your daughter's name is Mika. She's staying with another psychic for now. A woman named Missouri Moseley. Mika is looking for you, and I promised her I'd find you, but I never said I'd put you two in contact. If you want to know more, give me a call."

Then I collected my gun and backed up towards the door, leaving a stunned Arthur staring at the paper I'd put in front of him. Rick just watched me leave with hooded eyes. I think he was still annoyed that I had threatened to shoot him in the goonies.

I was almost out the door when Arthur called after me in a strangled tone, "Who are you?"

I pivoted slowly on my heels, not sure how to really answer that one. Then it came to me, and I shrugged, already feeling a bit bad for what I was about to spring on him. "Name's Riley," I told him. "I'm dating your son."

And out I walked.

"I don't have kids," Arthur bellowed, ruining my grand exit. "You're lying!" I came to a stop, tipping my head back and staring at the gloomy sky. Then I pulled an "about face" and marched back into the shop. Rick was glaring at me, hand still on his gun. I was beginning to think he was overcompensating for something.

I pulled my sketchbook out, flipping to a sketch of Mika. "This is Mika," I gritted out. "She is your daughter." I flipped to the next page. "This is Finn. He is your son." Next page. It had sketches of both Mika and Finn on it. "Daughter," I said with exaggerated slowness as I pointed to Mika. "Son," I intoned, just as slowly, pointing to Finn.

I swear, if he didn't see the family resemblance, or at least the resemblance to Jemma, I was going to have him declared legally blind.

I flipped to the next page, but all it had was a decapitated vampire in a pool of blood, surrounded by shattered mirror shards. "Oh," I narrated, "that's a vampire I killed. Pay him no mind." Next page. This one had my ultimatum.

It was a picture of Jemma, featuring the hard set of her face—in heavy charcoal lines and dark shading—while she threatened to hurt my family if I didn't give up Mika. I still had nightmares about that look, because that was the moment when she truly made me believe her when she said she'd hurt them.

I pointed at it, allowing the anger and fear that Jemma made me feel come out in my voice. "This is Jemma—a lying, manipulative, borderline abusive mother." I leaned forward, getting on Arthur's level, when my mind lit up like a flare, and I froze.

Jemma, a woman who didn't seem to be that involved with her relatively normal son, was strangely obsessed with her psychic daughter. Plus, for some reason, she'd sought out and had two children with a random man. Only...he wasn't a random man. He was psychic.

Oh my gosh. This was worse, so much worse than I'd originally thought. I cleared my throat, putting words to my horrible revelation. "She slept with you to have a psychic kid. Only, Finn didn't turn out psychic. So she came back to try again. And it worked."

I paused, seeing Arthur's utter pain and confusion. Then I hammered it home. "She's trying to find Mika. To use her, to manipulate her gift. Jemma's the ultimate Hunter. Driven, obsessed." Chewing on my lip, I paused again. God, I felt like I was blindsiding this man and beating the knowledge into his brain with a crowbar. I was probably the worst person for the job.

Only now, Arthur didn't look confused anymore. Something was dawning on him, and I could see it in his face. "She wanted me...to work with her," he said, faltering. "To revolutionize Hunting."

I straightened, already knowing where this was heading. "You said no, so she went for the next best thing." Arthur looked ashen now, and I didn't blame him. Well, I kind of did. He'd slept with a psycho...twice. Don't ask me how that had even happened. I didn't know or want to even think about it.

Still, him just knowing didn't help Mika. What he was going to do with the knowledge—well that, that was my concern. I rapped two knuckles sharply on the piece of paper, drawing his dazed look to it. "You have a daughter who needs your help," I said softly. "She's untrained, untested. She grew up thinking she was some kind of freak. But she wants to help people, and I think you do too. I'm not asking you to suddenly make her part of your life. Hell, I'm not asking anything. I just thought you should know."

I took a step back from the desk, suddenly feeling lost. I had delivered the message. I had completed my side of the bargain. Now it was up to Arthur. I just hoped to God I hadn't just ruined Mika's only chance to get to know her dad.


End file.
